


Best Left Unsaid

by looselipssinksubs



Category: The Stationmaster - Alexander Pushkin
Genre: Community: rarewomen, Epistolary, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 20:35:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/looselipssinksubs/pseuds/looselipssinksubs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After my grandmother died, I found a letter she had written and rewritten and crossed out and rewritten again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Left Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alley_Skywalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/gifts).



Many years ago, my father remarried, and his new wife decided to throw out all the old furniture and redo everything according to her own taste. Fortunately, I had a household of my own by then, so that instead of being thrust into the roles of Vasilissa and her wicked stepmother-- which would have suited both of us ill-- my father’s new wife and I became, if not bosom friends, at least fond of each other, and allies against my father’s occasional fits of enthusiasm for unsuitable things. Had I still been unmarried then, and accustomed to running my father’s household without interference, I would have fought her to the bitter end to save every last scrap of furniture. Instead she invited me over to take one last look before she got rid of it all, and to point out anything I was particularly attached to, if perhaps there was a chair that had been a particular favorite of my mother’s and that I couldn’t bear to part with.

Diamonds in the upholstery? Really, the imagination you have! As I was about to tell you, we _did_ discover something hidden away, but if you’re going to be silly, I’m not going to continue with the story. Now drink your tea and don’t interrupt.

Where was I?-- yes, the furniture.

Now, you must understand, I would never say anything in the least disparaging about my stepmother-- she was a good-hearted woman and looked after my father lovingly-- but it must be admitted that she was a trifle airheaded at times. She had the same exact idea that you just did, though to her credit she did not start babbling on about _diamonds_. She merely confided to me, once we had started the process of checking over all the old bureaus and secretaire desks, how romantic and exciting it would be to discover a mysterious old locket, or even, if we were very lucky, a declaration of love with some unknown initials carved into the underside of one of the fold-out leaves of the dining table.

My late mother had had even less use for such romantic nonsense than I do, but I didn’t want to spoil Yelena Feodorovna’s good humour, so I didn’t mention that any locket of unknown providence would have been tossed out years ago, or that the dining table had been opened up for every party and someone would have noticed its defacement right away. We continued to diligently remove each drawer, and to rap our knuckles on the sides of bookcases, listening for the tell-tale hollow sound.

As I was pondering whether I would have room for that nice little side table with the inlaid drawers if I took it home, my stepmother cried out, “Eureka!”

I turned and-- no, of course I did not! Why should I say such a thing? Perhaps there do exist such individuals who might address their elders as “Archimedes” in a jocular tone of voice, but I am glad to say that none of them are to be found among my generation! If you can’t behave yourself, I shall be sure to mention it to your tutor. Archimedes, for goodness' sake! The nerve!

Oh, very well, I’ll continue. But remember that you promised!

I turned around and there she was, triumphantly standing over my grandmother’s old secretaire. “Oh, Manyasha, look!” she said with eyes enraptured-- no, I haven’t the faintest idea how they ever got ‘Manyasha’ from ‘Avdotia,’ but parenthood does strange things to the brain-- “come look at this, Manyasha,” she cried, “I told you there had to be a secret compartment somewhere! Oh, how thrilling!”

I came and looked. One of the middle drawers of the secretaire, emptied of pencil ends and random bits of string, turned out to have a false bottom. The wood had warped and Yelena Feodorovna had snagged her nail on the sharp edge, and that was how it was discovered.

We pried it up carefully and found, not a locket, but some letters.

The paper had gone a deep yellow and the ink had faded, but the old-fashioned handwriting was still readable. My stepmother unfolded a page and held it up to the light. “Oh, would you look at that? She underlined the letter ‘sh’ just as you do! Just imagine!”

“She?” I asked. I must confess that a small seed of curiosity had been planted in me with the discovery.

“Yes, some ancestress of yours! See, here is her signature, she was called Avdotia as well!”

I unfolded another letter and looked at the date. Some people don’t date their letters, and other people merely write “Tuesday,” which to my mind is even worse. I trust I shall never receive such a letter from you. No? Good.

Luckily, this one had not only the date at the top but the year as well. “Yelena Feodorovna, I believe these were my grandmother’s letters.”

We took them into the smaller sitting room, where there was better light, and laid out each sheet very carefully. My stepmother gave a gasp when she accidentally tore a corner, and then insisted that I handle the rest for fear that she should do any further damage.

Well? Have you noticed anything strange yet? No. Of course. You’re not attending at all, are you?

Tell me, you keep letters, don’t you? In a box or something of the sort?

Yes. There you are. They were her own letters, unsent. As Yelena Feodorovna and I discovered when we began to read them, they were all drafts of the same letter, written at different times-- some were days apart, some were months or years apart.

I’ll get to that in a moment. Let me tell you about my grandmother first.

She was a grand old lady, inspiring respect in all and outright terror in some-- “the wicked flee when none pursueth,” she’d say, and a young woman who had some private impropriety weighing on her conscience would tremble and turn pale. Above all she had absolutely no patience with people who tried to get above their proper station in life-- social climbers, she called them, with a little sniff of disdain.

“Look at that one,” she’d say. “Look how familiarly he speaks to that prince. His father is some rustic little landowner with fifty serfs! Does he think no one notices him clutching at one coattail after another?”

You didn’t want Avdotia Samsonovna’s censorious eye to fall upon you, no, not at all. She could spot a faux pas from the other end of the ballroom. Even the young rakes behaved themselves under her eye.

God only knows what she’d say if she was here to see you. You ought to be grateful that she isn’t!

So this lady had written some letters in her youth, and lost her nerve before sending them. Fetch me that folio-- yes, there, that’s the one. Let us see what these letters said.

 

_~~Dear Papa,~~ _  
_~~Dear Father,~~ _  
_~~To my own dearest father,~~_  
 _~~Dear Papa,~~_  
 _~~I hope you receive this letter in good health. I hope you are well. Forgive me for not writing to you earlier~~ _  
_~~Forgive me for~~_  
 _~~I beg your forgiveness for not~~_  
 _Dear Father,_  
 _Please do not worry about me. I am living very happily here in St. Petersburg. I have all that I could wish for and many friends all about me. ~~I am sure you would not begrudge your only daughter I know you have always wished the best for me~~_  
 _~~You have always told anyone who would listen that I am like my mother. Well, then, you have no right to be angry to remonstrate with me, for you know it is clear that you and I both know she would have done the same.~~ _  
_I am sorry for not asking your permission before leaving, but I am not sorry I left._  
 _~~You should not have~~_  
 _~~You had no right to~~ _  
_~~It was you who put the idea into my head, after all. All those travelers coming and going, and you thrusting me at each of them in turn along with the food and drink-- did you think, while you listened to them talk, that I would not hear as well?~~ _  
_~~Children are meant to be seen and not heard, but that did not prevent me from hearing.~~_  
 _~~Whenever a man passing through remarked on my prettiness, you would always say, “oh yes, she is prettier than any girl in the capital, I’ll wager!” So when I had the chance to go and see for myself, I took it.~~_  
 _~~Here in the capital, when I go to salons and have conversations about art and poetry, they all turn their faces to me and listen when I speak.~~ _  
_It was perhaps rash of me to depart in such a fashion with Captain Minskii, but you need not fear for my reputation. Here in the capital such things are commonplace, and if anyone thinks the less of me for it, they do not say it to my face._  
 _I assure you I am much happier here than I could ever be at the posting station._  
 _~~Your loving daughter,~~_  
 _~~Love,~~ _  
_~~Sincerely yours~~_  
 _Dunia_

So, my dear, those were the more legible parts of the many drafts of the letter she never sent.

My stepmother and I, without quite saying it aloud, looked at each other and resolved never to show our discovery to my father. It would only have distressed him. As far as he knew, his father died in some unspecified but heroic fashion before he was born, and before marrying, his mother had been the only daughter of an impoverished branch of a formerly-great family.

I never could bring myself to burn these papers. Seeing as I haven’t any children, I suppose it will be up to you to decide what to do with them, one day.

For now, go put them back on the shelf and pour some more tea. Have I told you about my maternal grandfather yet? No? Well, sit back down and listen--

**Author's Note:**

> I always did wonder about the mention of Dunia's children, and how much of her past she eventually obscured-- and how exactly she reconciled her status in life with society's expectations for 'proper' behavior. Did she deceive herself about how others saw her? Did she learn to stop caring? Why didn't she go back like the prodigal son in the parable? Here's an attempt at an explanation.
> 
> (Also, I couldn't resist slipping in that little reference to The Twelve Chairs.)


End file.
